‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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